A Hollywood Hazing
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: Your arsehole boss has just hung himself through a filmset, there are two goodlooking guys in your dead boss's trailer, and because bossman topped himself you might lose your job. The world is clearly going mad. 1st in the Clothesline
1. The Hazing

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the unfortunate girl in the brown cargo pants. May God have mercy on her poor fictional soul.

Rated: for language and violence.

AN: I have officially committed a cardinal sin in the fanfiction world. I created a 'verse altering OC purely because it was fun (and the little toerag just wouldn't leave me alone). I'm going to foist some of the blame onto Diet Coke Chic, who wrote the remarkable 'The Barista' series over in the Stargate 'verse, which partly inspired the creation of my girl. I'm not asking you to like it, or even review it. I just wanted to give her a chance, so hopefully you guys will too.

**

* * *

1 – The Hazing**

So here's me, quietly flipping out.

Oh, don't worry, I plan to flip out loudly later on, but at this point it's probably not a great idea. This is a film set, after all; the only people allowed to rant and scream and carry on like hysterical children are the important people. I'm a PA. It's just not gonna happen.

The reason I'm quietly flipping out? My boss is dead. As in, hung himself through the ceiling of a movie set dead. I would know, I saw it happen.

Now, I know it sounds bad, but the fact that Brad bit the big one isn't really my greatest concern right now. Well, it is, just not for the reasons you might think.

For one, it could mean I'm out of the job.

See, I'm not a set PA. Technically, I'm not part of the movie crew at all. I worked for Brad directly and did my best to run interference between him (giant arsehole that he was – whoops, shouldn't speak ill of the dead) and the rest of the crew. Mostly the screenwriter, Marty.

You know, this really isn't how I saw this job turning out. I have a BA in English Lit and Creative Writing. I came here for the writing opportunities and instead end up keeping a B grade studio rep from pissing off a B grade writer on the set of an equally B grade horror flick.

Wanna know the thrilling reason Brad hired me? A friend of mine working for his studio recommended me to him as an up and coming writer. Awesome, right?

Epic fail.

_Hellhazers II: The Reckoning _already had a writer. Only Brad wasn't too sure about Marty. The original manuscript he was rewriting for the movie was formerly a screenplay by a W. Dixon. Brad brought me on to keep Marty from killing the thing entirely.

I'm not sure it worked.

Like I said, B grade. And not even in a fun cult-classic kind of way.

_This so isn't going on my CV_, I think, heading mindlessly for Brad's trailer. He'd left paperwork in there. The studio would need it back. As his PA, I was going to be the one to have to retrieve it.

The thing is, since this movie started, I've been practically living in this trailer. Brad did a lot of lurking on set, but the moment he didn't have to be there he was gone, leaving me holding the leftovers. In any case, it meant I pretty much had the thing to myself except for, you guessed it, when there was paper work to be done. It's nice, my secret place; no one comes looking for me here…

That's weird.

Ever get that feeling of impending doom in the pit of your stomach? Like something's going to happen and you can't do shitake mushroom about it?

That's happening to me, right the fuck now.

And I must be the biggest dork on the planet, because I still climb the steps, open the trailer's door –

And freeze.

Oh. Fuck. Me.

There are people here.

Here. In my _secret place_.

Oh, _my God_, did I just think that?

But wait, it gets worse.

It's a pair of guys. Really freakin' good-looking guys, too.

My face must look like a capsicum right now.

At a glance, I'd have to guess the one with the longer hair is one of the co-stars, or an extra on a rising star buzz. Maybe they're going to give him Brad's trailer? The other guy still has a walkie-talkie pack on his hip and a set of headphones sitting beside him on the coffee table. A set PA, maybe giving the new guy the low down: _"Man, you'll never guys who this trailer used to belong too…that guy who hung himself onset? Yeah, creepy huh!"_

Wow, this is awkward. You would've thought they would've told me about this, let me get mine and Brad's stuff out of the way.

Although…

Here's a fun twist; these two handsome souls look as alarmed to see me as I am at seeing them. Not surprised, _alarmed_.

Ooh. There's a thought.

I raise my eyebrows at them speculatively.

I cross my arms.

I give them the look that's been scaring the living daylights out of six brothers and various male cousins for the later half of my life.

"You're not supposed to be here, are you?" I say interrogatively.

It's a minor miracle that the Medusa Face works, but then again, my mother taught me well.

They crumble like cake in a baby's fist.

The rising star darts a look at his companion and goes, "Um –" (awkward throat clearing) "– not – not really…"

I do the last thing they clearly expect.

Grinning, I close the door behind me, step into the trailer proper and say, "that's okay; me neither."

They gawp.

I stroll over to the mini fridge and begin digging for the Marmite sammies I stashed in here this morning.

When I turn round, they're still gawping.

PA guy speaks for the first time. Not much through. He goes, "What?"

I shrug. "This is – was – my boss's trailer."

They look incredulous. "Brad?"

"Yup."

"The studio guy?"

"The very same."

"The _dead_ studio guy?"

"Dean!"

"What?"

Rising Star is giving Dean the PA a censuring glower. Then he raises his eyebrows and flicks a look at me. Its sweet, really, that he's trying to be tactful and sensitive. It's wasted on me at this point though. Really, all I want is to have my comfort food, collect Brad's stuff and…okay, not totally wasted; I still want to have that loud flip-out at some point.

"Its okay," I tell them. "I didn't really know him that well. I'm supposed to be getting his stuff for the studio. What're you two doing in his trailer anyway?"

It should be a relatively easy question to answer. I was expecting some sheepishness, some fidgeting, but not the watchful exchange of looks and more awkward throat clearing.

It's about then that I notice the discs spread out on the coffee table.

And the scene paused on the flat-screen.

They're watching dailies. It's the scene Brad hung himself in. And there's an unfamiliar woman in white standing onset where she clearly shouldn't be.

I'm staring, I know I'm staring, and I also know the guys are staring at me too.

"You know," I say, casually. I feel kind of light headed. "I was there when Brad died. I saw it happen."

You could hear a pin drop. The guys are looking worried now.

"I don't remember seeing her there."

Really worried.

"Care to explain what the fuck is going on?"

"Special effects," blurts Dean.

I look from him to the flat-screen.

_Really_, I think, _cos I've seen the concept work for the ghosts and crap for this flick, and that ain't it._

And at this point in production, they won't be putting CG in, and especially not on _dailies_ where a guy's _hung himself_.

This is something a PA would know. Therefore, clearly, Dean the PA, is not, in fact, a PA. This means that Rising Star over there is probably not a star of any kind. These two probably shouldn't even be in the studio itself, let alone in Brad's trailer.

It also occurs to me that no one knows I'm here, and that these guys are big guys. Seriously, Not a Rising Star looks about the same size as my eldest brother, and Nick's 6'5" and built like a brick shithouse.

It's a miracle to me, then, that it's at this point I decide to push my luck. I'm loosing my mind.

"Whatever," I say flatly. "Look, I'm going to need you guys to clear out. I need to get Brad's stuff organized."

They do that exchange of looks thing again and hastily pick up the small pile of discs. Dean takes the death scene out of the machine. Rising Star gives me this puppy dog look from under his hair that at any other time would have rendered me useless for the next three hours.

"We're sorry," he says, sounding sincere. "We'll get out of your way."

"Thanks," I say, and shut the door in their faces.

* * *

I spend the next hour or so having my loud flip-out. I'm so glad this thing is sound-proofed.

The half an hour after that I spend thinking.

What was that on the daily?

For the record I'd like to point out that I really might be loosing my marbles. I mean, really, my boss just died horribly, I could be out of work and out of pay in a foreign country, and I'm lying around in said late-boss's trailer wondering why there's a phantom woman onset…

Hmm.

I wonder…

* * *

Drew Hancock is a pushover.

He's also a ginormous man-slut who can't keep it in his ugly khaki shorts; it's why he and his girlfriend Cindy are so on-and-off. It's also why it only took fifteen minutes of fluttering eyelashes and small talk to get him to burn me a copy of the daily.

That in hand, I swing over to the photography department and visit my good friend Louise. Now, Lou's a little odd. She's been in photography for a while, hopping through various fields and doing a little of everything, and she always says the one constant is the weird crap people catch on camera. She's made a hobby out of collecting some of it. Brad's phantom will be something she'll love to get her teeth into.

We meet up at her office then head out to one of the little cafes near the studio complex. Lou pulls out her laptop and I hand her the DVD. We spin through and find the phantom in the last few seconds.

"Wow," says Lou. "When you said you had something for the collection I didn't think it'd be so…fully formed."

That's fully formed?

"Really? What do you usually get?"

She shrugs and starts adjusting the image. Little by little, it starts to clear up. The phantom's features begin to emerge. "A shadow, a light where there shouldn't be one. Maybe an orb or two."

I'm not going to ask.

"Sometimes a face shape or the outline of a figure. But this is…really, really defined. Wow."

Wow is right. The woman's face is clear now; we can see the shape of her wide set eyes, the dramatic makeup and even her beauty mark.

"Hey, Lou, could I get a print of this?"

* * *

"Hey, Tara –"

"Omigod, Peggy!" the actress cries, reaching up to hug me as I slide into the director's chair next to her. "How're you holding up, sweetie?"

"Not bad," I say honestly.

"Oh," she says, keeping one hand on my shoulder, eyes huge with sympathy, "you're being so brave."

_Not really_, I think.

I smile at her. "Thanks…I'm keeping busy, which is helping. It's why I wanted to talk to you. You know how you've got pictures of everyone on set?"

Delighted by the interest in her hobby, Tara grabs the ever-present album on the low table beside her and opens it on the arms of the chairs between the two of us. "Did you want to replace the one of you?" she asks anxiously, flipping through the pages. "Cos I actually quite like that one."

"No, I just…hang on." I get her to pause on one page. Two familiar faces look back at me from two separate Polaroids.

Dean the not-PA and his buddy the un-Rising Star.

"Who are these two?"

Tara grins. "Cute aren't they?"

"Haven't seen them on set before."

"Oh, they're new. That one's Dean, and that's his friend Sam."

Dean looks happy as a pig in shit. Sam looks awkwardly like he might need to take one. Poor bastard must have been shanghaied.

Tara looks sly. "Should I introduce you?"

"Oh, Tara, that's sweet of you, but I don't know if I could handle right now…"

"No pressure," she says earnestly. "What was it you wanted to look for?"

I pull out the print Lou gave me. "Have you got a picture of this woman in here?"

Tara frowns. "I don't remember…she looks kinda familiar though."

We scan the book, front to back. Nothing. Then Tara remembers.

"Ooh, ooh, I know where I've seen her!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! Dean was telling me about her."

"…he was?"

She blushes.

"Of course he was," I say, smiling.

Tara smiles conspiratorially back. She leans forward in full gossip mode. "She's a starlet from back in the thirties, apparently. Oh, and you know what's weird? She hung herself through a set, just like Brad did."

Holy crap.

**

* * *

AN2:** I'm not expecting miracles. Poor Peg, she's not even likable at this point. Still, have at it.


	2. Weird Pie

AN: This whole present-tense/first-person thing is really kicking my arse. Having been a habitual past/third kinda gal for-freaking-ever, it's really proving a challenge.

Ooh, look, I could develop as a writer! Yay.

And now for some plot momentum.

**

* * *

2 – Weird Pie**

_I'm dreaming._

_This has happened before, but I know I'm dreaming._

_I always know._

_Nan is sitting on the floor with me, helping to arrange the wooden animals. The tiger goes here, next to the lions, the snakes here, in a pit made of blocks so they won't bite anyone, and the one lonely elephant goes here, on the coffee table, for all the world to see._

_The elephant is the oldest wooden animal. He is white, almost the__ colour__ of Nan's hands. Her nails are perfect ovals, just like mine. But mine are pink. Nan's are like frosted glass._

"_Will you be alright, sweetheart?"_

_I nod. "The snakes won't get out of the pit."_

_I smile at her. Gran smiles back._

"_And if they do, the lions will eat them."_

_She kisses my forehead and leaves the room. I never hear the front door go, but upstairs, I hear my mother begin to cry._

* * *

You know what? My little slice of weird pie just keeps on getting weirder.

Last night the producer, Jay, got puréed by one of the wind-fans on the set.

The cops and security hauled me out to talk at four AM this morning because I've been sleeping in Brad's trailer when filming finishes late. I slept there last night (which has me no end of freaked out), and was thus rendered slightly suspicious and a bit of a witness. However, once security footage cleared my otherwise spotless name, I was free to go do a little more freaking out and get cleaned up before the rest of the cast and crew started arriving around six.

You'll never guess who I spotted lurking round the crime scene tape.

"…giant fan. Same thing happened to a guy back in '66 named Billy Beard."

"What the hell, dude?"

"Don't know…doesn't seem like Elise this time either..."

I freeze, and not from the paralytic guilt of eavesdropping either (raised with six boys = shameless).

If I'm not very much mistaken, they're talking about Elise Drummond, the starlet who came to the end of her rope, so to speak. See, before I crashed on the trailer's couch last night, I searched the studio in Google and got some very interesting history back. Turns out stage 9 has seen two suicides and two accidents that resulted in a death. Long story short, Elise Drummond (the first suicide, interestingly) is Brad's phantom.

But apparently, she's not Jay's.

"…it's not her MO."

"And we already torched her, so what? Are we dealing with other ghost?"

Y'know. I really need to go sit down.

* * *

We get the day off.

Thank you, Jay.

Our director, McG, makes a stirring little speech and sends us on our way.

I make my move as the crowd starts to disperse.

"You guys got a minute?"

They whip round, evidently surprised to see me. The first words out of Dean's mouth are, "Jesus, don't you make noise when you walk?"

Sam gives his friend a look, and then switches his very fine eyes over to me. "Sure," he says.

I nod, shove my hands in my pockets.

"Follow me."

* * *

The first thing Sam says as we enter the trailer is, "We're sorry about before, Peggy."

I collapse into one of the leather armchairs. Apparently they've been talking to Tara, who made mention of me and how brave I'm being. Joy.

I flap a hand at him as the pair of them sit, Dean taking the remaining chair, Sam the couch. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, well, we shouldn't have been in here."

"Probably not, but I wasn't coping as well as I pretended I was…"

Sam winces. "Seeing us watching the daily of Brad probably didn't help."

I nod, picking at a fraying seam on my jeans. "Yeah…and seeing a chick that's been dead for seventy-five years in frame with his body was kind of unsettling."

Again with the pin-drop silence.

And the gawping, when I look up at them.

Y'know what? Screw it, this is funny.

I grin. "What, like it was hard to figure out."

More gawping.

"You know, you guys could actually be cute if you didn't spend so much time trying to catch flies."

I'm fibbing; they're both gorgeous. Clearly out of my league.

Dean's able to articulate first. "And, you're okay with this?"

My very private reasons for suddenly believing the lurking dead are not something I want to get into right now.

I raise one eyebrow. "I'm not _okay_ with it, but I've come to terms. I mean, I get it; ghosts have killed off my arsehole boss and the arsehole producer…"

Oh look a light bulb.

"…hey, is anyone else sensing a pattern?"

The boys exchange grins. "We thought it was just Hollywood."

I shrug. "Not really. It's just unfortunate. I mean McG's okay, just a bit of a dork. Tara's nice."

Dean get's this look on his face. I know that look. My big brother Dave got that look on his face whenever Rachel Hunter appeared onscreen. "Yes, she is," he says.

"Oh, you should totally go there," I say. "She's into you."

Dean is enthused. "Really?"

"Yeah, which is weird," I say, honestly puzzled, "because she's usually got a thing for massive man-whores."

Sam lights up, grinning. Dean's looks puzzled, then like he's bitten a lemon. Sam's grin grows to epic proportions and he cracks up, rocking back on the couch.

"Massive…" he wheezes, "man-whores…" then trails off, laughing again.

Dean looks pained.

"I don't get it," I say.

* * *

"You know, maybe the spirits are trying to shut down the movie cause they think it sucks. Cause, I mean, it kinda does."

Sam's slumped in a disconsolate heap on the couch, watching endless dailies. This would be bad enough, but Dean walked in not five minutes ago and informed us that Billy Beard (he who was pureed in '66) was cremated.

This is, apparently, a bad thing.

You know that slice of weird pie I mentioned earlier? It's gotten so weird you couldn't get _kune-kune pigs_ to eat it.

I've spent the past _six hours_ trying to put together the paperwork the studio wanted from Brad while Sam, in between scrutinizing endless bad cinema, catches me up on the whole ghost hunting gig he and his brother are living.

Yeah, they're brothers. The smokin' hotness is genetic.

"Welcome to my world," I say, not looking up from the pile of paper in front of me.

Dean briefly takes pity on me. "How's the paperwork coming?"

"I'm never working as a PA again."

He grins. "Aw, c'mon Peg, it's not so bad."

"You never worked direct for Brad Redding," I mutter. "The guy thought I was a human filing cabinet."

That gets me a frowny face. "Why'd you work for him in the first place?"

I briefly explain about the recommendation from my friend at the studio.

Sam leans forward. "Wait a second. You're a writer?"

"An up and coming one."

Dean's frowny face gets frownier. "This makes no sense. Peggy, what're you doing PA work for at all?"

I shrug. "Brad hired me to keep Marty from mangling the original script too far."

"It didn't work, did it?" Sam asks, all sympathy.

I sigh. "Not really, as evidenced by…" I gesture to the flat-screen where Tara, as 'Wendy', is reading from a book.

His attention back on the daily, Sam's eyes narrow. "Wait a minute." He rewinds, and then plays the scene from the beginning. His eyes widen. "What the hell?"

Both of them suddenly get very serious on me. Dean's frowny face hasn't gotten any less frowny, but it has gotten grimmer.

"Sam, what is it?"

"It's real."

"What's real?" I pipe up.

"The chant. The chant is actual Latin. It's a necromantic summoning ritual." Now Sam has a frowny face to match his brother's. "What the hell is it doing in a bad Hollywood movie?"

And wouldn't ya know it; they both turn and look right at me.

Well, crap.

"Peggy," Dean says, in what is clearly his big-brother-about-to-deal-out-the-pain voice. I have three older brothers, and they all have a voice like that. Not that they ever worked on me; I have the Medusa Face.

I'm not sure it's going to cut the mustard in this case.

"Um. My bad."

"How?"

I fidget. "Look, you'd have to ask Marty why he kept it, but it was from the original script and I advised that it stay…you know, for authenticity. I had no idea it was real; my high school didn't offer _French_, let alone Latin."

They exchange looks of trepidation. Sam looks tired, scrubbing his hands over his face. Dean just looks grumpy. He's going to get permanent forehead trenches at this rate.

"Know who wrote the original?"

"Someone called W. Dixon. I never met them. Marty will have though."

"I think we need to got see Marty, then." He casts me another look, most of the frown gone. I may yet live. "Know where he'll be?"

"I can guess," I say, putting down my papers and toeing on my shoes. "Let's go."

* * *

I lead the boys to the office blocks and showed them Marty's office.

"You're not coming in?" Sam asks, eyebrows raised.

"Course she is," Dean says jovially, looping one arm over my shoulders and preparing to propel me into the office.

I grumble petulantly at the pair of them. "I don't like him." Grumble, grumble.

"Why not?"

Grumble. "You'll see." Grumbly, grumble.

When we appear in the doorway, Marty's blathering away on his cell, only noticing us after we've been standing there a good minute.

"Hey, guys, Paige –"

"Peggy," I correct automatically.

"Yeah, well…we're shut down for the day. What're you doing here?"

"I'm still fixing Brad's paperwork," I say. "These two wanted to talk to you."

I flick my fingers at the boys who, all smiles, launch in a tag team dialogue of how much they loved the script. I try not to gag. Marty, however, having never met such a pair of consummate actors as Sam and Dean, laps up the praise. How sad is it that they're not even trying?

"Yeah, I mean, I really liked all the attention to detail," Sam says.

"Dude, right on, that's my thing. Color me guilty, but that is me. I'm a total detail buff."

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. The old Irish mean streak in me comes out.

"What details were you thinking of, Sam?" I ask mildly, leaning back against one of the filing cabinets.

Sam gives me a curious glance before saying, "Well, I thought it was really cool how you worked in, you know, all those old Enochian summoning rituals –"

Marty's face falls so quick it's in danger of sliding clean off his head.

_Wait for it…_

"– I'm mean, the research for that must've been…"

Marty's face recovers, and it's cranky.

_Here we go_, I think.

"Wait, you mean all that Latin crap Paige here –"

"_Peggy_," Dean and I correct in flat unison.

"Oh, whatever!" Marty snaps at me. "You wanted to keep it."

"Yeah," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "because it's authentic. It lends credence to the story."

Marty snorts. "As if the audience is actually gonna pay attention to that crap! You and Walter, you're as bad as each other."

Dean says, "Walter? 'Walter the PA' Walter?"

That earns us disdainful looks from Marty. "Walter Dixon's not a PA."

_Oh my God._

No way.

"Holy shit," I say out loud.

Sam gives me a wary look. "Peggy?"

I narrow my eyes at Marty. "_Walter_ is W. Dixon? He wrote the original script?"

"Well, shyeah."

"Oh my God, Marty, no wonder he's always cranky on set, you ruined his screenplay!"

"I did not!" Marty yells back. "It was garbage! No pace, no love interest," he continues, counting them off on his fingers, "the action scenes were a frigging joke! Its all just wackadoo exposition!"

"Uh, guys?"

"Those things aren't _essential_ to a good story, Marty!" I say, my voice getting shrill.

Sam tries again.

"Peg? Marty?"

And is ignored.

"Oh, what would you know?" Marty says savagely. "You're just a two-bit wannabe Brad picked up from the studio to get in my way!"

I can feel my face going flat, the colour leaving my cheeks.

Dean mutters, "Ah crap."

Marty's not done. "What would _you_ know about _real _writing?" he sneers.

It's kind of like being punched in the stomach.

"You know," I say, my voice soft and frighteningly calm, even to me, "it's no wonder nobody likes you."

Barely registering Marty's look of indignation, I turn and stalk out of the office.

Just before I turn the corner of the corridor I hear Sam say, faintly reproachful, "Was the really necessary?"

Marty replies with, "What'd she mean, 'nobody likes me'?"

Bloody _typical_.


	3. Drowned Out

AN: This was fun to write. Sadly however no one seems to like Peggy. Poor thing. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Two or three chapters to go…

* * *

**3 – Drowned Out**

I hate to say it, but I'm a sulker.

When something upsets me, I'll mosey off by myself and sulk for Africa. Of course, being accused of being a 'two-bit wannabe' hired to get in someone's way because she knows nothing about her job, well…it's something a girl can really take to heart. I intended to have a bit of a weep before getting seriously grumpy.

The flipside of this is that sulking and the blind emotions that go with it can sometimes make you stupid.

Case in point:

Having left the offices I was heading back to my now-not-so-secret place when it occurred to me the boys would be going back there. A sulking and/or crying girl is not something boys deal well with. The guys in my family still don't know what to do with one and they've know me most of their lives. I've known Sam and Dean two days; they wouldn't have a blue clue and it'd make everyone uncomfortable. Besides, I wanted to sulk in private.

I hung a left instead and went for the set.

Closed for the day, stage 9 is deserted. I go for one of the sets, the one that's supposed to be the tiny upstairs bathroom of the 'abandoned house'. There's an old claw-foot tub with badly chipped enamel, a balsa wood vanity dressed up to look like rotten mahogany with a bowl and ewer sitting on top of it. The mirror on the wall isn't even real glass; sugar-glass to be broken in stunts. There's also a footstool that sits in front of the vanity. Its cushioned top has been dyed and slashed open to make it look old and abused.

Funnily enough, it's still comfortable.

I plump down on it, lean back against the vanity, and have a good weep, cussing the air blue around me in between sniffles and hiccups.

Just to kill the moment, my phone goes off, R2-D2 whistling and chirring in my pocket. Lou, that sneak, must've gotten hold of it at some point and changed my ringtone again. I don't even like _Star Wars_ that much.

"Hello?" I say, voice predictably gummy.

"Peggy?"

I frown. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you get my number?"

"We're back at the trailer; it was in Brad's event planner."

"Oh," sniff, "right…"

"Peggy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

A bit of a sigh on the other end. "Look, what Marty said…you're right, he's a total asshole. You shouldn't pay attention to what he said."

The next thing that comes out of his mouth shocks the living daylights out of me.

"I think you're a great writer."

"How would you know?" I blurt, my surprise evident.

"Well, we scrounged around in here for a copy of Walter's original script, and we came across this green folder…"

My hardcopies. Christ.

"Sam, when I get a hold of you," I threaten.

That earns me a low chuckle. "I only read a few, but I'm serious, Peggy, these are good."

I can't help smiling. I mean that's the point of writing, right? That someone somewhere enjoys it?

"I'm glad you like them," I say, then frown a bit as the connection fizzes a little.

There's a rumble on Sam's end of the line – Dean asking something, I guess, because the former mutters, "Oh yeah," then, "Peggy, where are you anyway?"

I shrug even though they can't see it. "On the set. I just needed somewhere to be by myself…"

I'm not prepared for the panic in Sam's voice.

"On stage 9? Peggy, listen to me –" static wipes him out temporarily, "– ost's are tied to. You need to –" more static.

"Sam?"

"Peggy –!"

"Sam, I can't hear you."

"– out of there – run! Peg –!"

The buzzing eats up his voice completely. The line cuts. I stare at the phone in my hand.

That feeling of impending doom is back.

_Tink. Tink._

It's the sound of water hitting enamel and its coming from the bathtub. I get up to look – see the little red droplets, their colour stark even against the professionally ruined enamel – and my stomach actually cramps with precognitive horror.

_Pat. Pat._

Liquid hitting floorboards.

Behind me.

_Oh God._

I barely have time to turn – the glimpse I get of my assailant is brief; a woman, brown hair, sad eyes, blue dress – before something shoves me backwards into the bathtub.

My skull should have shattered as it hit the bottom of the tub, but it doesn't, because it's filled with red fluid – _blood. Is it blood? Oh God!_ – which is flowing into my mouth, up my nose, down my throat…

For a second the pressure lets up and I come to the surface sputtering and blind, able to gasp once, filling my lungs before I'm shoved back under again.

I thrash, and wish to scream, but I can't risk loosing any air…my lungs are burning, my knuckles sting from hitting the sides of the tub, but it doesn't matter because they're getting cold…I can feel bubbles leaking from my nose as I struggle to break free. The pressure increases, squeezing my chest, pushing the air out of my mouth in a burning burst.

I breathe in.

Fluid fills me.

I open my eyes.

Just before I fall, there's a muffled boom and lightning seems to cross the surface the red liquid.

_Gone._

_

* * *

The white elephant sits on the coffee table for all the world to see._

_When I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands, I see the word written in a bold line down its back._

_I look up._

_Nan smiles._

_Then she puts one pale hand against my chest and pushes._

* * *

I come back to myself as my body spasms hard, my entire torso bowing and heaving as fluid is expelled from my lungs. My nose and throat burn as it seeks any viable escape route, and I'm only vaguely aware of the huge, warm hands holding me steady as I retch and sob on the set floor.

"Peggy?"

Through bleary eyes I can just make out Sam's face as he crouches into my field of vision.

I'm able to wheeze out, "Hurts."

"I know, just try to breathe, okay? Nice and slow…"

Very carefully, I'm levered upwards and settled against what feels like a warm wall, but is probably Sam's chest. If I weren't recovering from almost drowning, I might be frightfully embarrassed.

"Dean, we need to get her to a hospital."

Whut? We do?

My breath catches wetly in my throat. My head swims. Sam's hand tightens fractionally on my shoulder.

Oh, right, we do.

"Alright. Make the call and stay with her, I'll put this away."

Wait a second, put away what?

My vision's clearing up. I tilt my head to try and see Dean…ooo-kay.

That's a shotgun.

A pump-action sawn-off shotgun.

Even suffering mild oxygen deprivation my brain goes, "Whoa-ly shit."

Sam meanwhile is using his free hand to call 911 and reporting that he's got a girl in her mid-twenties who almost drowned, but he's not sure how long she wasn't breathing for.

Come to that, neither do I…how long does it take to get brain damage from oxygen deprivation?

* * *

The next hour or so is kind of a blur, but I do remember one thing very clearly.

As they were loading me into the ambulance, half swaddled in blankets, oxygen mask in place, something in my muddled brain woke up and went, "Heeeeeelp!"

Turned out to be my fear reflex.

Logic died, and my hand shot out like a slightly sluggish striking snake and grabbed Sam's arm. He looked a little surprised, but took my hand a said very solicitously, "Peggy, you're gonna be fine. It's okay now."

Fear Reflex said, quite stridently, "They hell it is!"

Still not entirely capable of being coherent, all I managed was a soft noise through my mask. In any case, I don't know what Sam and Dean (back before the paramedics got there) saw on my face, but it must have been pretty profound. It felt pretty profound.

End result? Sam rode with me to hospital.

I'm in a bed in the ER of the local hospital now, trying to rest. It's not really working. Every time I doze off I think I'm back under the red water in that god dammed tub and jerk myself away.

Sam's sitting on a chair nearby with his laptop open on his knee. Dean showed up not long ago with it and I vaguely remember them having a conversation about organizing watches.

Blinking at Sam now, I feel kind of bad. I mean, shouldn't he be off with Dean, hunting down the things that are perpetuating horror and death at the studio?

Sam looks up, noticing I'm awake.

"Hey, Peg. How're you doing?"

"I'm –" my voice sticks a little. I clear my throat very carefully and try again. "I'm okay. Ish."

"Ish," he echoes with a small smile.

"Yeah…Sam, what's going on?"

"Well, you're blood-oxygen levels are good. They still want to do a CAT scan though…"

"Oh, yay."

"…and you'll probably have to stay in overnight for observation."

"Sucks. I hate hospitals."

Sam looks sympathetic. "Me too."

A moment later he asks, "Peggy, can you tell me what happened?"

I huddle a little deeper into my blanket but nod. A few preparatory deep breaths and I'm good to go. I tell him what I remember about the attack; about the phantom blood (which I'm realizing wasn't real – it was too thin and didn't taste like salt and metal they way real blood does) and as much as I can about the phantom herself.

"She looked sad, Sam, like she didn't want to be there."

Sam looks as grim as Dean had earlier. "She probably didn't. That chant in the script? It goes with an old ritual that raises the dead from the place where they died and forces them to do whatever the summoner wants."

_Click._

"There was a ritual in Walter's screenplay," I murmur, dread filing me.

Sam nods, solemn. "It was him, Peggy. He's been using what he knows of the occult to kill the people who he thinks ruined his work."

It's a stupid reaction, but I'm offended.

"Including me," I say, feeling myself being to tear up. _Christ on a crutch_.

"Don't take it personally, Peggy," Sam says gently. "He probably just saw you as part of Marty's writing team…"

"And as Brad's lackey," I add. "Hate by proxy."

Sam sighs. "Yeah."

It occurs to me that Sam hasn't just stayed with me to get my side of the story. There's the unspoken possibility that Walter might try it again. Who knows how far he can get his ghosts to travel from the stage where they died?

Just how much does he want me dead?

I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing evenly.

"I hate this job," I whisper.

I feel Sam's hand slip into mine.

"Try and get some sleep," he murmurs. "Things'll be better in the morning."

I hope so.

* * *

AN2: Please review this time? Please? I would _adore_ the feedback.


	4. We Have a Plan

AN: To those who reviewed…you guys rock my world. I'm so glad someone likes Peggy. There's hope for you yet my girl!

* * *

**4 – We Have a Plan**

I get woken up about an hour and a half later for my CAT scan – "Just a precaution," the nurse tells me, because I reacted well to all the earlier stimuli tests. I'm guessing that means all my higher brain functions are intact. No brain-damage for this little brown duck!

When I get back to my room (_taken_ back more like it – the nurse, Trudy, insisted I get wheeled there and back in a wheelchair. Sure it _looks_ like fun, but you feel like a bit of a dork) both Sam and Dean are sitting in a set of plastic chairs, talking in quiet voices.

They look up as I'm brought in. I must look a sight. My hair and skin still has dried fake blood on it and what make-up I'd thought to put on this morning has probably run. My clothes are in a plastic bag by the bed and I'm wearing one of those horrific hospital gowns, though luckily not the backless type. I'm really dreading coming face to face with a mirror.

I get a smile from both of them and a cheerful, "Hey, there she is," from Dean. "Gotcha somethin'," he adds, putting a very familiar bag in my lap as I climb back onto the bed.

It's my overnight bag. I'd packed it this morning in preparation for going home at the end of today's shoot…my toiletries pack, yesterday's clothes and a spare shirt are in here. Oh my god, I get to be clean!

I grin at Dean. "You are made of awesome."

Dean preens. Sam rolls his eyes but smiles briefly. I continue to grin and think with renewed desperation about showering. Ooh, there's body-wash in here. Nectarine and white ginger. Brilliant…

"Peggy?"

I peer at the pair of them through hanks of my crusty hair. Uh-oh. We're back to frowny faces.

"What's up?" I ask warily.

"Well, we've kind of hit a slight hitch in our masterful plan…"

"What Dean is trying to say is that –"

"You won't have to stay overnight for observation," Dean cuts his brother off.

"I won't?" I ask cheerfully. Awesome!

"Well, not _hospital_ observation, anyway," Dean mutters, hands jammed in his pockets.

I get my own frowny face out.

"Whatcha mean, _not hospital observation_?" I ask, back to wariness. "What's happened?"

More brotherly exchanging of looks; a conversation in a quarter of a minute's eye contact. I get a pang of homesickness. Me and my little brother Morgan used to be like that. I haven't seen him in six months. Jeez…

In any case, Sam's looking back at me, all careful and solicitous-like. "The thing is, we're spread a little thin. We think Walter will go after someone again tonight while the production is still shut down and we need to be there to stop him. On the other hand he might come after you..."

"And you can't be in two places at the same time," I finish. Fantastic. Now I feel _really_ stink. Nice going Peg, you just had to stick your spanner in the works and go off to sulk where there're _rabid ghosts_ running round.

Sam nods. "Yeah. But we figure we can keep you safe if you're in the trailer while we deal with Walter."

Colour me curious. "How?"

"Remember I told you there are certain things ghosts don't like?"

I wrack my much-abused brain. "Salt and iron, right?"

"Yeah. Well, we can fortify the trailer with salt-lines, and I'm pretty sure we've got a length or two or iron chain in the car," he glances at Dean for confirmation, who nods back, "and I suppose…we could give you a gun."

Jesus. Wow. Really?

"Okay," I say.

Clearly this is not the reaction they were expecting.

Dean's eyebrows migrate up his forehead. "Okay?"

I nod. "Well, yeah. I mean it's not like I've never been shooting before."

A wide grin blooms on Dean's face. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises. How is it you can shoot, Peggy?"

"Rabbits," I explain. "They periodically set up camp in one of our back paddocks back home and make a nuisance of themselves. We'd get up early and ride out there to catch them while they were all out feeding."

"Catch 'em with what?"

I shrug. ".22 Mag rounds in a Sako Quad, mostly. Dad and Nick both have shotguns, but the .22's are quieter, less recoil. More comfortable if you're going to lying around on a soggy hill shooting for an hour or two."

Dean looks thoughtful. I wonder if they've ever come up against a problem like this; having to teach someone to use a new firearm in a few hours. Maybe they've never had to do this; protecting a potential victim while fending off the predator. Maybe they've always arrived after the fact, dealt to the culprit and moved on, preventing further carnage that way.

Despite the situation, or maybe because of it, my curiosity is flaring up. Maybe if we all live through this (and the pair of them are so quietly confident, I'd like to think it's a given) I'll ask Sam a bit more about the whole ghost hunting gig, about how they find them in the first place, how he and Dean usually work a job.

"Pump-action," Dean says suddenly.

"Whut?"

"Pump-action, y'know, shotgun," he elaborates. "We'll give you one of the pump-action shotguns for tonight. They're better for beginners. I mean you shouldn't need it, me and Sam should have everything under control, but…"

"It pays to be prepared," Sam finishes.

I nod. "We do we need to leave?"

"We'll wait for your CAT results to come back then head off. It shouldn't take that long."

"Well, in that case," I say, climbing out of bed, overnight bag in hand, "I'm gonna go make use of my present. See you boys in a bit."

Off each of the small ER rooms is a bathroom complete with industrial-type, steel tray shower. I really don't care what kind of shower it is so long as there's buckets of hot water.

I've shed my stupid hospital gown and underwear and am about to hop in and make good use of the body-wash when through the door I hear Dean say, "Dude, you realize she's naked in there?"

"Dean!"

"And soapy…"

"Oh for crying out loud!"

I laugh and step under the spray. Things could be worse.

* * *

The salt runs in a thick, bright line from one side the trailer's doorway to the other. It's the last line put down, the air-con vents, windows and even the drains already covered.

"That should do it," Sam says, straightening up and surveying his work.

It's not just the salt lines either. In the centre of the trailer's main room we've set up a sort of camp for me. There's one of the leather armchairs and a blanket, as well as a few water bottles and a pack of sandwiches which are going to be my dinner. I've got my sawn-off, and a box of spare shells. There's a wide circle of salt around the 'camp', just in case, as well as the loops of iron chain.

Sam's not done just yet though. He's going from window to window and writing in what might be Hebrew on the glass with a paint marker.

I watch him curiously for a few seconds then look a question at Dean, whose pauses loading shells into his own shotgun. He gives me a perplexed shrug then says to Sam, "Y'know sometimes, Sammy, less is more."

"I thought that was just with make-up," I can't help interjecting. That gets me a purse-lipped 'don't-be-a-dork' look, which, coming from _Dean_ is kind of…anyway.

"It's for protection, Dean," Sam replies over his shoulder.

"Yeah…against revenants. Do you see any rabid corpses running around?"

I'm sorry, _what_? Did he just say…? _Seriously_?

Rabid _corpses_?

As if ghosts weren't enough to deal with…

Sam's shoulders have pulled into a tense line, and I can see his knuckles have gone pale where he's gripping the marker. Dean has his eyes narrowed, studying his brother.

"Every little bit helps…helps protect her, Dean."

Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's that determined, faintly fragile edge to his voice, but I get the feeling that for a second there, Sam wasn't talking about me.

Dean looks back down at his gun, nodding a little as though his suspicions have just been confirmed and says, perfectly evenly, "Right. Every little bit helps."

At his brother's words, the tension goes out of Sam and he finishes the…spell or whatever it is, the final line of text ending it a rather elegant knot-work on the back of the trailer's door.

Dean just finishes showing me how to reload my sawn-off when Sam's phone goes off. The conversation is brief – "Hi…okay…yeah…when did he leave?...okay, thanks Marcy."

"Was that Marcy Dales?" I ask. Marcy is one of the office-block secretaries. She's a real sweetie; when I was missing home she invited me over for dinner and I've babysat her kids a few times.

Sam nods. "We told her we were friends of Marty's after you, um, left. She said she'd call me when Marty got called out of the office. He left two minutes ago."

"Think its Walter?"

"Yeah, probably luring Marty to stage 9."

"Time to go, then."

"Yeah…" Sam turns and looks at me, all concern and seriousness. "You'll be okay Peg, promise."

I give him a half smile. "I know," I say. "Go."

He nods, then follows his brother out of the trailer.

I settle back in the armchair, shotgun cradled across my thighs, and wait.

* * *

AN: Bit of a little filler chapter this one, but I really wanted to show Peggy getting to know the boys, even if it was only in a small way.


	5. Get Haunted

**5 – Get Haunted**

I don't have to wait long.

The first sign that something's wrong is the cold. My breath fogs snowy before me and I shiver, huddling back into the blanket around my shoulders. My knuckles are white where they clasp the shotgun and I make an effort to loosen them.

Next thing I know there's a harsh, gurgling noise coming from the bathroom behind me. I turn in time to see red water – _oh God_ – bubbling up and flowing over the sink, spilling in a bright torrent down to the floor and washing back the salt-lines there. It reaches the end of the tile and hits the carpet, soaking the edge and pooling, the colour deepening.

My hands are shaking.

I know what comes next.

And, right on cue…

She arrives in a static burst, flicking into being not two feet from my second salt-line. Bare feet showing from under the sodden blue dress, dark hair a mess of red tinted rattails, and the saddest eyes you've ever seen; this is Lola Wolfe, stage 9's second fatal accident.

In 1978, a stunt went wrong; Lola slipped and cracked her skull on the edge of a bathtub filled with fake blood. Unconscious, she slipped under and drowned. No one realized she wasn't acting 'til the director called cut and one of her co-stars went to help her out of the tub.

She gazes at me with her big pained eyes, looking sadly at the salt and iron that rings me. Boy, am I ever glad we put down that circle…

I adjust the shotgun in my hands to get her attention. Sure enough, the melancholic gaze comes right back to me.

"Hello, Lola," I murmur.

She blinks, lips parting in surprise.

"Yeah, I know who you are." I swallow hard. "I just – I don't know if you can understand me entirely, but…I want you to know, I don't blame you."

She blinks again, eyes widening.

"I know he's using you, using a ritual to force you."

Her eyes fill up; the only liquid on her that isn't the colour of blood.

_Oh for the love of_…I think I'm tearing up a little too. _Pull it together, Peg._

"I know it must be horrible."

Here comes the tough-love. I slide the pump on the shotgun, the shell loading with that lovely, sinister, simultaneous set of clicks.

"But if you somehow get past those lines, I won't hesitate," I tell her, trying to put steel I don't feel in my voice. "Come any closer and I will blow you away. I mean it, Lola."

She shakes her head slowly, the tears beginning to fall. The pooling fake blood begins to seep from the bathroom tile into the carpet; the red stain heading steadily towards me. If it touches the second salt-line it will dissolve it, and when that happens there'll only been the iron chains keeping her back.

Only it won't matter if she floods the entire trailer.

"Lola," I whisper, tearing my gaze from the trickling water to her face. "Lola, please, please don't do this. Fight back, please, I know you can, please…please don't let this happen."

She's shaking her head, wet hair swinging about her shoulders.

"Fight it."

Her fists clench at her sides, so tightly her knuckles look like they might break through her skin. I flinch when the stereo wakes up, spewing buzzing, snarling static in the room. Threaded through the white noise is a girl's voice, thin and frightened, whispering and sobbing.

"You can do this."

Her eyes close, lids crushed tight, splayed lashes thick with tears. A fine trembling begins at her fists and quickly moves up to her shoulders. She's trying so, so hard…but that stain just keeps on moving

"Please…"

She flickers, in-out, in-out of visual perception. The stereo notches up the volume; there is the sound of a man's voice chanting, sounds of a girl in pain, fluid hitting enamel.

The water touches the salt circle.

_Oh God, no…_

"Lola!"

For a moment, everything hangs on a knife edge.

Me, bringing my gun up, taking aim, beginning to gently squeeze the trigger…the salt turning steadily red, dissolving away into the pile of the carpet…Lola, her big eyes snapping open, a silent gasp shaping her mouth.

The air goes heavy, thick on my tongue, a physical force on the back of my throat.

_What the fuck…?_

The transformation of the ghost before me is instant and terrifying. Her hair and dress billow, as though underwater. Her skin cleaves quick to her bones, thinning her face and turning her hands to claws. She bares her red limned teeth, grinning so that her eyes narrow to dark slits.

One word rasps from her dead throat.

"_Free…"_

And abruptly, she's gone.

Three seconds after, I'm still standing poised with the sawn-off, waiting for my brain to catch up. When it does, the suddenly absent adrenaline drops my knees from under me. I collapse, quivering like a leaf in a storm, to the trailer floor.

This really, _really_ isn't how I saw this job turning out.

* * *

I spend the next fifteen minutes shaking in the leather armchair, clinging to the sawn-off and wondering what the fuck is going to happen next.

Lola doesn't come back.

Neither do Sam and Dean.

Just as I'm about to get really worried, there's the sound of sirens in the distance.

"What…"

The trailer door swings wide. Sam strides in, looking a little harried.

"The police are coming," he says without preamble, and begins striding about (rather difficult when you in a room designed to be pulled behind a truck), picking up the various supernatural paraphernalia that's accumulated in the trailer over the last day and tossing it into a duffle bag.

Meanwhile, I continue to sit it the armchair, looking on a little helplessly, but for some reason unable to do anything about it. Also, there's this weird rattling noise coming from somewhere. I peer about, looking for where it might be coming from.

Sam says over his shoulder, "What's that noise?"

It seems really close by…

"I don't know," I answer. "I'm looking for it."

Silence. I look back at Sam. He looks back at me.

"Peggy," he says carefully, "Are you okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, but…well, my legs don't seem to want to work," I say plaintively.

Sam's eyebrows go up. "Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"Um…yes?"

His eyes flick to the shotgun in my hands. I follow his gaze.

The shotgun is shaking violently, rattling against the ring on my middle finger.

"Oh," I say.

He gives me a rueful smile and gently takes the gun out of my hands. I clasp my hands in my lap and try and convince them to stay still. Meanwhile Sam's gaze has caught on something over my shoulder.

I see him swallow, shoulders tensing like they did when he was writing that spell up on the trailer windows.

In a low serious voice…"Peggy. Are you absolutely certain you're alright?"

I frown then look over my shoulder.

Oh.

The bathroom. The flood of crimson covering the tiles, still seeping sluggishly into the carpet. The line of wet red that has eaten away at my salt circle.

…_it won't matter if she floods the entire trailer…_

"Um," I very nearly wasn't okay, but I'm not going to say that to Sam. "Y-yeah."

His jaw goes tight. "Lola was here."

I nod.

He looks at the shotgun still in his hands. I can't bring myself to speak. Is he always like this, or has something caused it? Dean was worried about keeping me safe, in a general kind of way, but Sam seems to be taking this awfully personally.

_What happened to you, boyo?_

I find my voice when the sirens get louder.

"You said the cops were on their way…"

Sam blinks. "Yeah…yeah, they'll be here now." He gives me another one of those lopsided, rueful smiles. "Legs working yet?"

"Gee, I hope so."

"Great. You can give me a hand making this place look normal again."

I wobble upright and begin helping Sam set the room to rights and get the rest of their gear stowed away and out of sight. Dean apparently hid his shotgun in with the onset props (very sneaky) and is probably even now dealing with Marty.

"Oh, yeah," I say, shoving the armchair back against the wall, "is he okay? Did you stop Walter in time?"

Sam looks exceedingly awkward. "Peggy…we couldn't stop Walter. I tried to talk him out of it, but he set the ghosts on Marty, and then ran…"

My brain leaps to the inevitable conclusion of, _Oh God, Marty's dead!_

I must look as horrified as I feel because Sam rushes to finish with, "but, Dean held off the ghosts, and I went to find Walter, and, well…he broke his talisman."

I blink at him.

"Um. Whut?"

"His talisman," Sam says, still expecting me to get it, "the thing he used to control the ghosts."

"Oh…oh!" I say, flailing. "Oh, shit."

_She bares her red limned teeth, grinning so that her eyes narrow to dark slits. One word rasps from her dead throat. __**"Free…"**_

I have a very bad feeling.

"Sam," I say slowly. "If the ghosts got free…what did they do to Walter?"

He's about to answer when there's an authoritative knock on the door. "Police, open up."

_Oh, fuck!_

Sam and I stare at each other, eyes wide, and then both swing round to look at the bathroom, still flooded with red water. _Not good!_

I can see Sam's brain going a mile a minute. "Play along," he whispers.

I nod.

Sam opens the door, and lets in the fuzz.

**

* * *

AN:** Seriously. I'm begging you. Feedback. This whole lack of reviews, even cranky ones, makes me very, very nervous.


	6. Ice Cream Will Save You

**AN:** Big love to everyone who reviewed, especially Mandalynn23 who reviewed for every chapter.

* * *

**6 – Ice Cream Will Save You**

Someone once said I should get into acting. I told them, not for all the tea in China. My forays into the world of Hollywood did not change this opinion (in fact it got a few swear words added), for all that I've met some actors I consider friends and generally awesome people.

My point however, is that when called upon, I can fib through my teeth and look good doing it. I know I keep mentioning it, but the reason for this will always be my brothers, specifically the pranksters of the bunch, Nick and Dave. If they ever needed someone to cover their arses pre-, post- or mid-prank, it was to their baby sister they ran.

So, Sam said play along, and boy, do I ever.

He strides over, flings open the door and says, "It's a good thing you're here, officer."

_Um. Really?_

"We've been pranked," Sam continues, sounding like he's about to be, or just has been, very angry. He half turns and jabs a finger at the mess of fake blood all over the bathroom and the living area carpet.

The cop – middle-aged, middle-height, round around the middle – does a double take when he looks from Sam to the bathroom. Behind him on the trailer steps I hear a younger man's voice say, "Holy shit, is that actual bl –"

The cop cuts a sharp look over his shoulder. There's some nervous throat clearing. The cop steps forward allowing what assume to be his partner to step into the trailer proper.

You know what's great? Being pretty when you put a little make-up and effort in. You know what sucks? Being surrounded by people who look frickin' awesome when they roll out of bed in the morning. Sam and Dean? You betcha. Tara and Sara-Jane, who plays Kendra? Them too. This bright spark of a young cop? Un-fucking-believably, yes. _Acres_ of yes.

I'm not kidding. The guy's a young Brad Pitt with all the yum and none of the suave.

I look exactly how I feel; like a girl who's bog-standard without make-up, exhausted, in shock, and disheveled.

The only thing I have going for me right now is that I still smell like my nectarine and white ginger body-wash.

This may be the worst week of my life.

Meanwhile, the older cop is taking in the scene with grand aplomb, considering it looks like someone stood over the sink and tried to empty a person.

"Pranked?" he says, all coply, respect-ma-_authora-tie_ suspicion.

Sam looks at the cop, looks at me, looks at the cop, then strides over to me with his anxious-puppy face and puts those huge paws of his gently on either of my shoulders.

"Peg," he says, "you gonna be okay?"

We've already more than covered this, so I know it's for show.

That and afterwards he mouths, "Cry."

Don't need to tell me twice.

I give him a tiny nod, and then get in the zone.

Right. Tears. _Now._

It's not hard. All I do is think of the last twelve hours. The dressing down from Marty, the almost drowning, the hate-by-proxy, the _second_ almost drowning…you get the idea.

_Wait for it…_

My eyes burn. My lip wobbles. I start hiccupping. I can actually feel my nose going a little red.

Here's a redeeming feature! Angelina Jolie I am not, but I cry _beautifully_. Just about on demand too! Bonus!

Sam gives me a small smile. Mouths, "Atta girl."

He makes a show of fussing over me and getting me settled with the blanket on the couch before striding back over to the two cops and doing some quality fibbing. I nestle down and kinda, sorta pretend to be in shock, all the while eavesdropping like the fiend I am. They keep their voices low, but I catch _fake blood_, _bathtub_, _mugged_, _shock_, _trailer_, _resting_, _cruel prank_ and _those bastards_. Sam does an absolutely spiffing job of barely-leashed-righteous-anger-on-behalf-of-fallen-damsel.

The idea of successful eavesdropping, of course, is not to look at the people you're trying to listen in on, especially if they're in the same room as you. I avoid this by focusing on the (fake!) bloodied bathroom. It kind of kills two birds with one stone. I pick up a few key words and play the victim by gazing fixedly at the source of ire.

Only it backfires a little.

_Liquid hitting floorboards. Behind me. __**Oh God.**_

My head feels a little light.

_I can feel bubbles leaking from my nose as I struggle to break free. The pressure increases, squeezing my chest, pushing the air out of my mouth in a burning burst…_

My hands are shaking again.

…_a muffled boom and lightning seems to cross the surface the red liquid._

I'm genuinely surprised when Sam comes over and puts one hand on my knee to get my attention.

"Peggy?"

I blink at him. "Yeah?"

"These guys want to talk to you," he says slowly. "Is that okay or do you need to keep resting?"

My brain rushes to catch up, connect the dots to form a story. Right. Okay.

I clear my throat carefully, it's still sore from…earlier.

"No," I say quietly, "I'm okay. I can…I can talk."

It's surprisingly easy, talking to the two officers. I don't even have to lie much. Yes, I had an argument with my co-worker, yes I ran off to stage 9 to…sulk, and yes, I was attacked there. No, I didn't see my assailant, no there's no one I can think of who would want to do that to me…or who would want to pump the same fluid that almost killed me up through the trailer's plumbing to flood the bathroom, just to frighten me. No I can't think of anyone…but…

It kills me to do it. But I say it anyway.

"Walter," I say softly.

The cops do the same thing Sam and Dean have been doing since I met them. They exchange those speaking looks. A conversation without words. These two don't look like they've been partners long, but they're already very good at that look.

"Walter Dixon?" asks the round one.

I swallow thickly and nod. "Yeah. I found out from Marty during the argument that Walter's the original writer of the screenplay and that he…that he probably thinks I helped ruin his work…"

I trail off, swallowing sobs. That bit's not hard to fake. Sam completes the picture though by putting one long arm around my shaking shoulders. I lean into him, and hiccup,

"But I-I'm not. I'm trying to h-help. I just wish he kn-knew that."

My first warning that I'm not going to like what comes next is Sam tensing up beside me. Then the cops doing that dynamic duo thing with their eyeball talks again, before Mr. Round Around the Middle says, very gently, "Ms. Patcher, Walter Dixon died tonight."

_She bares her red limned teeth, grinning so that her eyes narrow to dark slits. One word rasps from her dead throat. __**"Free…"**_

I'd suspected, but it's still a shock to hear it for real.

Dead. Dead just like Brad and Jay. Dead like I almost was.

Dead like Lola.

* * *

It's late.

Sam and I, having cleaned up the bathroom as best we can, take turns having quick showers to get rid of the fake blood stains and try to wash away some of the…cumulative craziness, I guess. I go first while Sam collects spare clothes from wherever Dean's parked their car.

I come out of the bedroom, freshly changed and lightly made-up, just in time for Sam to arrive back with Dean and (of all people) Marty in tow.

Marty does not look well. He stumbles over to the couch, sits down rather abruptly and puts his head in his hands.

I raise my eyebrows at Dean, who has likewise collapsed in what I've begun to think of as my armchair. He simply shakes his head, scrubs his hands over his face and sighs, before giving me a lazy grin.

"Some night, huh Peg?"

I hear Sam snort as he shuts the bathroom door. Moments later we can hear the water start running.

I shake my head and perch on the other end of the couch. "Some night," I agree quietly, and then check my phone where it's sitting on the coffee table. "Or rather, morning," I add. "It's just past midnight."

Dean nods, gaze sweeping the trailer. I see him taking in the only slightly faded trail of red from the bathroom to the centre of the living area.

"Sam said Lola paid you a visit."

"Yeah…"

"How did that go?"

"The salt-lines almost didn't work. I think if she'd really wanted to, she could have dissolved both and drowned me for sure this time simply by flooding the trailer."

It's easier to talk about it now. The horror is fading away. The protective distance the human brain is so good at adding is beginning to unspool as time takes me further and further from those moments.

I'm about to go on when Marty makes a sort of strangled noise and looks up at me. He looks haggard, like it's all just hitting him. Sam said Walter set the ghosts on him, too, I remember.

He stares at me, disbelief written all over his face.

"You _knew_ about all this?"

I flick a glance at Dean, who shrugs and watches both of us. Probably wondering how Marty's going to react.

I say cautiously, "Um, yeah. I walked in on Sam and Dean reviewing the dailies when – when Brad died. That was when they saw the first ghost on camera. Things kind of…spiraled wildly out of control from there."

That earns me a smile and a rueful chuckle from Dean. I manage a smile back. Marty looks between us.

"And…when the ambulances came this afternoon? That was because…"

"Your buddy Walter tried to gank Peggy with one of stage 9's fatal accident victims. If Sam hadn't called her when he did..."

"And if Dean weren't such a dab hand with a shotgun," I interject quietly.

Dean preens a little as he finishes with, "…then we'd be short one up and coming writer."

I smile. It's nice when people remember what you _should_ be doing for a living.

Marty looks guilty for some reason, and I'm not a nice enough person to find out why. At this point I'm just going to glory in being alive to tell the tale and mostly intact. What I'd really like now is about a mountain of ice cream (orange choc-chip, oh God yes!) and then a monumental nap.

As if on cue, Sam emerges from the shower (slightly damp, wearing a clean jeans and t-shirt combo and just _that_ good-looking) in time for Dean's stomach to growl in a fashion that can only be described in ornery.

"Food?" asks Sam, smile starting at the left corner of his mouth.

"Food," Dean agrees. He looks at me and Marty. "You guys know anywhere good?"

"That'll be open at this hour?" Marty asks.

I grin. I can't help it. I might get my wish after all.

"Depends," I say cheerfully. "How do you feel about pancakes and ice cream?"

* * *

That's how I've come to be sitting in a booth in a little diner called "Snow Globe", tucking into their New York Winter special; five skyscraping stacks of tiny, puffy hotcakes dripping maple syrup and icing sugar, surrounded by equally tiny balls of mint, chocolate and French vanilla ice cream. It melts appallingly quickly, but it arrives looking fantastic and makes for a great desert.

Which, for reasons beyond my understanding, Dean seems determined to steal.

It makes no sense to me. He's got a sundae in a bowl the size of bird bath in front of him, not to mention a side of pancakes to could use as a pillow.

And yet, there's that fork, streaked with chocolate sauce, edging closer and closer to my plate…

Without warning (I hope) I bring down my own fork on Dean's, trapping the handle between its tines. I turn to look at him, clearly broadcasting my displeasure and say, in the same tone of voice I use on my dad's pig dogs, "Dean. _No_. _**Bad**_."

"Sit, rollover," Sam adds in undertone.

Dean gives me the charming, little-boy grin he gave the waitress who took our orders, sending her away in a storm of titters. If ice cream weren't at stake, I might be as swayed. Instead, all he gets for his troubles is a half-strength version of the Medusa Face.

"Jesus Christ," says Dean.

Sam tips his head back, laughing with chocolate ice cream on one corner of his mouth. Even Marty smiles; he's getting some of his pizzazz back. I smile smugly and let Dean have his fork back, then throw a balled up napkin at Sam and point around my own mouth. Sam flushes. Meanwhile, Dean is still staring at me.

"What the _hell_ was that?" he demands, retreating to the safety of his gargantuan sundae.

"My mum calls it the Medusa Face. It's what she uses to keep my brothers in line."

Sam looks a question at me, rubbing the chocolate off his mouth. "You have brothers?"

"Six of them," I say gleefully, because it never fails to get a reaction. "Hard northern blokes with guns and pig dogs and insatiable appetites for steak and Guinness."

This time it's Dean who tips his head back and laughs. "No wonder you can shoot."

"And fight for my food," I add. "I may not be crash hot with a bowie knife but I'm a frigging _ninja_ with a fork."

Dean gets this 'oh really' look on his face and for a second I'm sure he's about to challenge me to a cutlery dual…but no such luck.

Marty's decided to open his mouth.

"What do we do now?" he demands. Definitely back to his old self.

The boys exchange looks; cautious, curious.

"Ah, about what?" Sam asks.

"About the movie," Marty says, "about _Hellhazers_. Those things offed our studio guy, the producer, and now a screenwriter." He swallows. I don't think he's particularly comfortable referring to Walter. "At this rate they could shut us down."

I sigh. "Or send in another studio rep to further cock things up."

Sam looks concerned, at least for us anyway. Probably not so much for _Hellhazers_. I mean, really, I'm sure I've said it before but it merits saying again. This flick _sucks_.

"What will you do if that happens?" Sam asks quietly.

The mood's gone all somber all of a sudden. And things were going to so well…

Marty shrugs. "Find another project."

"Go back home for a bit, I guess," I say, sadly eye the remains of my special.

"Back to Australia?" Dean asks.

Oh, for want of wooden spoon.

I give Sam a pained, 'help me out here' look. He just grins back at me, the sod.

"Dean," I say patiently, "I'm not Australian."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "With that accent?"

…I try not to die of mortification. _It's not uncommon for people to miss the difference_, I tell myself. _If you can miss someone dragging on their 'i's like they're cigarettes._

"I'm from New Zealand."

Marty decides to wade in. "Isn't that part of Australia?" he asks, frowning. "I thought there was a bridge."

"Or a tunnel," Dean adds.

I look between the pair of then in complete horror. Sam is on the verge of biting his knuckles to keep from laughing.

"Well that just puts the tin lid of everything, doesn't it?" I say dryly.

Sam's head hits the back of the booth as he belly laughs helplessly.

"I don't get it," says Dean.

**

* * *

AN2:** Feedback is love. And I am huuuuuuuuman and I need to beeeeeeeeeeeee loved!


	7. When Shall We Three Meet Again

AN: Loves to those who reviewed, you rock my fanfic socks!

* * *

**7 –****When Shall We Three Meet Again**

"Sure you wanna be here?"

Sam's giving me that gentle, concerned look again. I huddle deeper into my jacket against the nighttime chill and nod.

"Yeah." I give him a small smile. "I kind of owe it to her, y'know?"

It's the weirdest thing. Sam gazes at me briefly, like he's trying to puzzle me out. I feel my cheeks heat up.

"She tried to kill you, Peggy."

"She tried hard not to as well," I say softly, gazing at the lettering on the headstone.

Sam nods, and we go back to waiting.

It's almost midnight, and the cemetery where Lola Wolfe is buried is full of shadows and cold. This April has been unseasonably cold and damp…it's almost like April at home. As it is, all of us are tired, grubby and keen to get this over with. My hands ache from digging; it's something I haven't had to do in a long time. The boys let me help at first, but when it became clear that I was going to have trouble climbing in and out of the hole, I was relegated to the sidelines. Not that I'm complaining.

From the six foot hole before the headstone there's a soft clunk.

"Pay dirt," calls Dean.

Sam gets up and retrieves the gasoline can and a matchbook. I cautiously edge over to the pit. Dean's pulling himself out and shrugging on his jacket.

"Ah, Peg, you might not wanna look…"

I swallow. "I've seen bodies before."

Dean shakes his head, utterly serious. "Not like this you haven't," he murmurs. "She's been down there for a while, Peggy. She doesn't even look like a she anymore."

"…oh."

He smiles, gets to his feet and helps me to mine. I step back while Sam stands at the ready with the flammables and Dean pours half a sack of rock salt onto Lola's corpse. Sam follows with the gas and the flaming matchbook…

There's a flicker, just on the edge of the light cast by the captive flames. A girl in a blue dress, flaking away into the night air. Each piece of her is an ember. Clusters of them swirl like clouds of fireflies.

I step closer to the boys, pulling gently on Dean's sleeve, never taking my eyes from her.

"Guys," I whisper, "look…"

They do, and all three of us watch silently as Lola comes apart.

She's smiling.

She shakes herself, sending whirling dervishes of little lights spinning away from her and flaring the skirt of her dress. Sparks fly from her hair and shoulders. She lifts her arms, pirouetting like a dancer. There's the sound of laughter, a flare of firelight, and Lola Wolfe flies away forever, just so much ash upon the breeze.

* * *

Three days later, and filming is back on for _Hellhazers_

.

My job is safe (more than, actually) and Marty is right back to his old arseholey self, except for the guilty looks he sneaks at me sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking. I'm still not a nice enough person to find out why, though I suspect it has something to do with Walter blaming me for Marty's redecoration of the script.

Speaking of…

"You find out there's an afterlife and this is what you do with it?"

I grin. I can't help it; the fact that Sam can be incredulous, even after all the crap he's seen from Marty just makes me wanna laugh.

"I needed a little jazz on the page," Marty returns, complete with smarmy smile.

Sam catches my eye over Marty's shoulder. I keep grinning and shake my head. "_Hopeless_," I mouth.

He grins back – rueful, lopsided – and tilts his head in the direction of the stage side door that leads to the trailers.

"Help me find Dean?"

"I have a fair idea of where he might be," I say, following him.

We take our time, meandering past the catering table, stopping to say hi to several of the regular crew. The boys, mostly Dean, have become quite the fixtures over the last few days. Gossip travels fast on a set, and the events surrounding my various adventures and Walter's unfortunate end are no exception. No one really knows the half of it of course, but they do know that I was attacked and that Sam and Dean saved me. They know that Walter was attacked, but couldn't be saved in time.

My heroes.

"Seen the latest gossip online?" Sam asks as we walk.

I shake my head. "Anything good?"

He grins, on the verge of laughter. "Plenty. Apparently, Stage 9 is haunted for sure."

"Really?" I feign surprise. "You don't say?"

Sam snickers. "I do. By a bloodthirsty ghost, no less."

"Goodness!" I put my hand to my mouth and fake a gasp. "Oh, Sam, whatever shall we do?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe Dean's got Dan Aykryod and Bill Murray on speed dial. Hey, I ever tell you about the time we ran into these guys who thought they were paranormal investigators…?"

By the time we're outside, Sam has me in stitches with the tale of idiot Ed Zeddmore and hapless Harry Spangler.

"And you sent them _here_?" I gasp.

"At least I didn't hide fish in their car doors."

"_What_?"

Sam lifts his shoulders, smiling smugly and says only by way of explanation, "Dean."

I shake my head, marveling. "You're as bad as Nick and Dave, honestly."

"Oh, I don't know…I can't speak for Dean, but I know I've never blown up a cow shed before."

The story came up in response to Dean's lovely little anecdote on the one time they'd gone after a banshee and managed to set an entire wheat field on fire. In a battle of rather immature one-upmanship, I pitted stories of my eldest brothers' exploits against the Winchester boys. It was kind of downhill from there.

I did learn a lot about them though. Mostly things like Dean's frankly unhealthy obsession with all things pie-related and Sam's nitpicky need to do all crossword puzzles in pencil before using a pen to finish.

"It was one time!" I protest.

"Peggy," Sam enunciates. "They _blew up a building_."

I sigh. "Yeah, they really did. But it looked so cool…"

Sam smiles. "So what do you think you'll do after this?"

"After _Hellhazers_?"

"Yeah."

I shrug. "Like Marty said, look for another project. Maybe get back into my short stories and try to get a few published." I look up at him, feeling the rueful look form on my face. "I miss writing," I say quietly. "Really writing, I mean. Not cleaning up after someone."

"Yeah, heard you got promoted." He gently bumps my shoulder with his arm.

I roll my eyes. "I'd hardly call it that."

His smile graduates into a grin. "But you're actively writing that script now, right? You got some of the 'authenticity' put back in?"

I can feel the blush in my cheeks. "Well…yeah. But only enough to make it credible," I add earnestly. "Nothing that could cause trouble if some idiot decides to take the ritual for a test-drive." I scowl. "Got rid of some of that crappy dialogue, too. I mean really, 'the ghost's must have super hearing'? What the fuck was that all about?"

When Sam's chuckles die away, I turn to find him regarding me with a decidedly broody face on.

"Ah, Sam, what's up?"

He stops walking, heaving a sigh, looking down at his shoes. I stop too, and he looks back at me, broody face still in place. It's a little unnerving, being under that scrutinizing look.

"Sam? You're kinda freakin' me out here…"

"You love writing."

It's a statement, not a question, but I agree all the same. "Yeah. It wasn't always what I wanted to do, but once I found out I could…" I smile. "Wild horses couldn't stop me."

Sam nods, looking at his shoes again, hands jammed in his pockets. With his hair falling in face, face suddenly uncertain, he looks all of twelve-years-old.

He blurts out, very quietly, "I wanted to be a writer when I was kid."

I blink, nonplussed, and then it's like really seeing him for the first time.

He's a scholar at heart, I know that much from the stories the boys have told me; snippets of their lives past and present, jigsaw pieces that for outlines with the insides to be guessed at.

But I'll bet…I'll bet you anything there's poetry living under Sam Winchester's nails and lashes and skin. I'll bet there's a journal or a Word doc or a wake of little bits of paper spread across the country covered in his handwriting…covered in snippets and turns of phrase and collections of words waiting to be spun into prose.

He's back to looking at his shoes… Before I can think better of it, I reach out and grip the fingertips of his right hand, giving it a gentle shake to get his attention.

He looks at me from under his hair, and I smile.

"Ever wake up at three-thirty in the morning wondering why, and then realize to have to get the words down; you have to write something, anything, before you lose them?"

His gaze sharpens, lips parting a little in what might be surprise. I nod and keep talking.

"And sometimes when you see something – the way an animal moves, or a city on a horizon, or how a person smiles – you think of ten different ways to describe it. Ways to make it so that someone else could read what you'd write and see what you saw."

Sam looks caught between awe and maybe a little bit of panic.

"You love words. You love the way you can piece them together and shape new things with them. You love finding new ways to do it, too. Sometimes you'll read something – something wonderful – and it'll take you're breath away."

He finds his voice.

"How…?"

I grin. "Welcome to my world."

He shakes his head, smiling back. It's bitter round the edges. "Wish I could."

I frown at him. "What…? Oh, Sam. When did you stop writing?"

He shrugs. There's a word for it: melancholic. "We're always on the road, Peggy. We don't have time…" He looks pained. "I'd have no idea what I was doing. You went to university to learn to write. I wrote a couple of short stories in high school. That was years ago…"

I give his hand another shake, taking a chance and stepping a little closer. _Thin ice, Peggy._

"Hey," I say softly. "I took those writing papers in Uni to learn to write _better_, not to learn to write at all. It's not something you learn, it's something you just do and then improve on. And being on the road is not excuse."

He frowns down at me, questioningly.

I raise one eyebrow. "You've got a laptop, don't you?"

"Yeah…"

I get my smile back. "Sam, one of the reasons I love being a writer is that it's a transient occupation. It's the job that goes where I go. As long as I have a way to get the words down, I'm good. You should be too."

He's looking at me, really looking at me, and for a second I swear…

I let got of his hand, step back, keep my smile on. "It's time to start getting the words down, Sam."

He looks like he wants to say something – that earnest shine in his eyes – but shakes his shaggy head, smiling too and says, "Let's go find Dean."

We keep walking, and honestly, it's not so much a matter of looking for _Dean_ as looking for the _boisterously rocking trailer_.

Tara's. As if it was hard to guess.

Sam's jammed his hands back in his pockets and looks uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, can't stop grinning. This is _hilarious_.

As predicted, Tara's door opens to admit one smugly smiling Dean Winchester, still shrugging on his jacket. He spots us waiting for him, his smile widening, then turns at the bottom of the steps and looks up. Tara is standing there, looking like the proverbial cat, in nothing but a green robe.

"You're one hell of a PA," she purrs.

I bit the inside of my upper lip to keep from cracking up. Sam looks like he wants the concrete to open up a swallow him.

"Thank you," says Dean, Ladies Man.

I turn my face to Sam so neither of them can see and mouth, _"Manwhore!"_

Sam grins, all awkward tension falling out of his shoulders.

Tara twinkles her fingers at both of us and we wave back. When Dean turns to walk with us, we're both still grinning.

"What?" he says.

Unable to help ourselves, we crack up.

"You guys suck," Dean says over our laughter, thoroughly put out. "I still don't get it."

* * *

So here's me, seeing off the Winchester boys from outside the studio gates.

Their car is mostly packed; supernatural, ghost-fighting paraphernalia neatly put away. The only traces they'll leave here will be the salt still stuck to the carpet of Brad's trailer and memories each person carries away from the film set with them.

I'm getting prematurely nostalgic (damn it).

I take a moment to drink in the car itself. I met her the night we drove to Snow Globe. I admit it, I cooed. She's just so gosh darned pretty! When I said as much to Dean, he got this look in his eye…

"You like my car, Peg?"

"Do I ever…" I couldn't let it slide though. "I take it back, Dean, you're not a manwhore, you're a motorslut."

Sam had crowed with laughter, while Dean scowled at both of us.

"And to think I was gonna let you ride shotgun," he muttered.

Dean's already in the driver's seat, flicking through a box of _cassette tapes_ of all things. Most of them lack cases, and those that've retained them are so faded as to be indistinguishable. I'm sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open, putting in my five cents, while Sam puts the last of his things in the boot.

This is how we say goodbye:

"What's the one in the blue case?"

"This?"

"Yeah."

Dean squints at it, inspecting what's left of the label. "Kinda hard to make out…Herb Albert, no, wait, Herb _Alpert_…and the Tijuana Brass."

Sounds kinda familiar…

"You have a cassette tape of trumpet medleys?"

He shrugs expansively. "Hey, not that I knew of." He looks back at the tape, trying to make out the rest of the label. "Might be one of Dad's old ones…could've just used it to record something else."

I grin. "Try it?"

"Might as well…" He turns the key far enough to get the radio started and slots in the tape.

I crack up when the music starts. Trumpets.

Dean crisply hits eject. "Well, _that's_ not happening."

"What've you got against brass bands?"

"Nothing, but this is better."

Another cassette goes in. I wrinkle my nose.

"Never really got into Van Halen."

Dean stares incredulously at me. "What'd mean you never really got into Van Halen? It's _Van Halen_!"

I smile. "My point exactly." I inspect some of the handwritten labels on the cassettes. "Don't you listen to anything other than classic rock?"

"Oh come on. What else would I listen to? Music died a horrible death the day the nineties rolled in."

"You think so?"

"Boy bands, Peggy. _Boy bands_. And Ricky Martin."

"The Hanson Brothers," I intone solemnly.

Dean gives a theatrical shudder. "_My_ point exactly," he says. "Besides, I win either way." He smirks triumphantly. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts her cakehole."

"Good thing she's not riding shotgun then, isn't it?" Sam says from where he's now leaning against the passenger side, elbows braced on the door and the Impala's roof. He peers in at us, smiling.

"Finally finished packing, Samantha?"

"Jerk," Sam returns without pause.

Dean swings back immediately after. "Bitch."

The back-and-forth is so easy and familiar…I miss my brothers _so_ much.

Sam offers me a hand out of the car, which I gladly take.

"Bye Dean," I say, once standing.

He smiles at me – that little boy grin again. "Bye Peggy."

Sam takes a few steps from the car and I follow.

"So…"

"So…" He smiles. It really is a lovely smile. So out of my league. "Look," he continues, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket, "if you ever need help with something…weird, these are mine and Dean's numbers."

I take the bit of paper, gazing at those two sets of figures…and making a decision.

"Got a pen?"

"Uh, yeah. Here." He offers me the sharpie he and his brother's numbers are written in.

"Thanks."

Ignoring the surprise on his face, I take his left wrist and carefully write out my private email address.

"I've already got your number, Peg," he says quietly, unable to see what I'm writing past my bent head.

"I know," I say, just as quietly, giving him his hand back, "but you can't send first drafts via text message."

He blinks at the lettering on his wrist. I really hope I haven't over stepped my bounds here. Such a fine line…

"I can't promise anything, Peggy," he says, voice low, looking at me earnestly from under his hair.

"I know," I say, jamming my hands in my back pockets. "No pressure. But you know, anytime you need to...even if its haikus," I add.

It gets me a smile. "Do you how much crap Dean would give me if he caught me writing poetry?"

"I think I can guess," I say, smiling back.

He gets that look on his face again, and before I can do the sensible thing and step back…

It's very quick, just a chaste press of lips. But it's _so_ unexpected, and afterwards, all I can do is blink at him in surprise, probably blushing from neck to hairline.

"Seeya, Peggy," he says into my hair.

"Bye Sam," I say back, having regained the ability to speak (and breathe).

Then he's stepping back and climbing into the car. He waves as Dean peels out from the curb, and I muster a smile and wave back.

Just before they get to the corner, music blasts from the Impala, and I throw back my head to laugh.

Trumpets.

They turn the corner and disappear from sight, but…

Ever gets a feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something's coming at you from a long way off, but you know you won't run from it?

_Seeya Peggy_, he said.

And y'know, I think I might…

**

* * *

AN2:** And so concludes the Tale of Peggy Patcher. I'll probably write more stories in this 'verse if anyone's interested…I have plans for Peggy. Bluecatdevil, that kiss was all for you, darn it! The rest of you will just have to forgive me for deviating from the promised ship-freeness.

**Also:** For those who want to see the fic and its sequels in all their Technicolor, bannered glory go to Peggy's blogspot – dubdubdub **dot** clothesline-peggypatcher **dot **blogspot **dot** com.

Thanks for reading, leave all reviews at the door and don't forget to tip your fangirl!


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